Learning To Carry It All

A reflection on 2025 and the year to come

This piece is a reflection on the year as a whole—a 2025 recap of sorts. It is an attempt to pause before stepping into 2026 later this week, to acknowledge both the growth and the challenges that shaped the months behind me.

Rather than moving month by month, I want to hold onto the moments that lingered—the ones that marked us, changed us, and stayed.

We’ll begin at the start of the year. By mid-February, my wife was about twenty weeks pregnant. If you know our story at all, you know how heavy those weeks were. The days leading up to that milestone—and weeks nineteen and twenty themselves—were filled with cautious hope, while the anxiety of the inevitable hovered at the edges, waiting for its chance to return.

When we finally reached those weeks, we did everything we could to keep one another grounded within our own capacities. We repeated the same quiet mantra: one more day forward, one more day behind us. For us, that was enough. Enough to make it through the second trimester—out of the fear of losing our daughter and into the fragile hope of viability.

By the end of February, I released my second novel, Holding Onto the Light, on Amazon. I wrote it with loss fathers and grieving families in mind, hoping it might serve as a bridge between sorrow and hope—between what has been lost and what life can still hold.

Spring brought movement and community. Visitors came and went. We hosted dinners and game nights. May was filled with baby showers and moments that felt almost unreal after everything we had endured. And then, at the very end of the month, our daughter decided to make her entrance—five weeks early.

We had anticipated an early arrival, but we had not anticipated a NICU stay. Those twenty-five days felt endless. The longest of our lives. Yet our daughter remained unfazed by the monitors, the feeding tube, the wires, the alarms, and the constant hum of the NICU wing. While her mother and I waited anxiously for the words “You can go home,” our daughter was growing, learning, and changing right before our eyes.

When that day finally came, bringing her home felt like the culmination of a dream nearly four years in the making. The joy was overwhelming. The gratitude, immeasurable. Where our story had once been defined by grief, pain, and longing, it was now filled with snuggles, contact naps, and tears of awe. We still cry almost every day—not from sadness, but from the sheer weight of how thankful we are for her life.

Summer followed with even more celebration. Family and friends arrived to meet her. We wandered farmers’ markets, made bakery runs, and shared home-cooked meals overflowing with love—something my wife and I had quietly missed in many ways after our two losses. Watching our families connect with our daughter, and seeing new life gently harmonize with what we had lost, was something I will never forget or minimize. Loss has taught me the full capacity of love. I felt it in small doses with my nieces, but with my daughter, it arrives like a tidal wave every time she smiles at me.

Fall passed in a blur. Our tiny NICU baby—born just over five pounds—was growing fast. Still in the fifth percentile for weight and height, but to us, she was enormous. Each day brought something new: recognition in her eyes, emerging skills, and the most beautiful giggles I have ever heard.

Thanksgiving brought a good kind of chaos as we hosted family in our small home—full to the brim with people and gratitude. It was also marked by remembrance, as we honored what would have been our first son’s fourth birthday. The following day, we packed the car and made the eighteen-hour drive to the Midwest to visit friends and my side of the family for an early Christmas.

Those three weeks away were deeply needed. Surrounded by love, community, and unhurried time together, it was one of the most meaningful visits we’ve had. It was also our daughter’s first experience with snow—she was unimpressed, though I imagine that will change with time.

When we returned home for Christmas, we hosted again—but this time it felt gentle. A week of rest, shared gifts, and memories quietly forming. I snapped a photo of a new ornament gifted by a close friend, embroidered with the words “Our Little Miracle.” In that moment, I cried. Despite the years of grief and hardship, we had been given exactly that—a miracle.

I know not everyone gets to write a reflection like this. Some are still deep in loss or navigating setbacks that feel unbearable. I have been there myself. What I try to practice each year, though, is finding at least one moment—just one—that carries joy, even in the midst of calamity. Life is rarely easy. Often it is cruel and unforgiving. But waking up each day still holds meaning, even when the good feels microscopic.

As this year closes, I invite you to reflect—not only on what hurt, but on what held you. On the blessings that may have arrived quietly or unexpectedly. I know I will continue doing this as I step into the year ahead.

Here’s to the closing of 2025 and the beginning of 2026. To a year shaped by growth and renewal. To carrying the weight of the past without letting it eclipse the light that still breaks through. Be gentle with yourself as you reflect—but brave enough to keep moving forward. Some beginnings arrive softly, and sometimes, simply continuing is the most courageous thing we can do.